


ALL THAT'S LEFT OF YESTERDAY

by GSister



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Denial of Feelings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 04:03:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11096502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GSister/pseuds/GSister
Summary: There's a certain safety in numbers.





	ALL THAT'S LEFT OF YESTERDAY

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This story is a pre-series fic, my take on the events surrounding the death of Don and Charlie's mother. It was inspired by the song "Hello" from Evanescence. All characters belong to CBS, Paramount Pictures and Scott Free Productions. 
> 
> Special thanks go to Mel for answering my questions on the Judaism and for providing me with links to sites to explain even more, and for looking this over to ensure that I used that knowledge correctly. Thanks also go to BMP, for beta-ing, for encouraging me to write all these years, and for hours upon hours of debating the characterization and actions of people that are only real in our imaginations. Also to Wolfpup for making and managing the Numb3rs archive, and to the great people at Numb3rCrunching for hours of informative discussion on the characterization, motivations, and backgrounds of the characters of Numb3rs.

Professor Charles Eppes focused on the equation that he was writing on the green chalkboard, letting the tap and occasional squeak of the chalk drown out any stray thoughts. His brother had poked his head in through the garage door twenty minutes ago, anger radiating off him in waves. 

"Mom died an hour ago, Charlie. I thought you'd want to know." It had always amazed Charlie that Don could get so mad and yet could keep his voice so even, so steady; almost nonchalant. 

Charlie had stopped his frantic writing for a moment, acknowledging his brother's entrance with silence, listening to the words, but not responding. "Charlie, did you hear me?" Don had asked, insistently. 

Charlie had nodded haltingly, not turning around. "Dad's still at the hospital," Don had continued. "I've got to make some phone calls. Dad said the plans were all made -- the funeral is tomorrow. And Charlie, Charlie!" he had repeated, raising his voice. It was a vocal demand to turn around and face him. 

Reluctantly, Charlie had half-turned to look over his shoulder, not quite looking at his brother. Don had taken a couple steps into the room, putting himself directly in Charlie's line of sight. 

"You will be at the funeral. Don't even think of missing it. You didn't spend time with Mom while she was in the hospital, that's one thing. Mom wouldn't let Dad make a big deal out of it. But you are going to her funeral, Charlie. You owe that to Mom, and to Dad. You hear me?" 

Charlie had nodded, and when Don had continued to glare, croaked out a rusty, "Yeah, I hear you." He cleared his throat. "Now if you don't mind, I need to get this thought down, I'm at a critical part in this equation." 

Don had left then, and Charlie refocused on the board in front of him and the numbers in his head. But the moment replayed again in his memory, distracting him. He realized suddenly that his hand had stopped in the middle of the equation it was scratching out on the board, held motionless while his mind replayed his brother's words. 

"Mom died an hour ago, Charlie. I thought you'd want to know." 

Charlie gave his head a shake, forcing the thought away, but it tried to return. "Mom died an hour ago..." 

"No," he said aloud to the empty room. "It's not true." Forcing himself to keep that thought uppermost in his mind, he refocused on the equation in front of him, breathing in the calming scent of chalk dust and the soothing sound of chalk on the chalkboard. He let the world fade away as he once more immersed himself into the wonderland of P vs. NP. 

1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89 144 233...

Charlie woke slowly, his mind casting for what it had been trying to remember. Don and their father had forced him away from the garage last night, telling him to go to bed. Over his protests, his father had insisted, telling him, "You can work on it more tomorrow, after the funeral." 

Slowly, reason reasserted itself. He had to go to a funeral today, and it was important that he not miss it. He flung back his covers and headed downstairs when he heard the sound of the shower down the hall. 

Coming down the stairs to the living room, he looked beyond it to see his father at the head of the table with a cup of coffee. As he entered the dining area, his father looked up. 

"Good morning. Would you like something for breakfast?" Alan Eppes greeted. 

Charlie took a moment to look at his father. He noticed the dark smudges under the red rimmed eyes, the droop to the strong shoulders. And when had those lines formed on the familiar face? "I'll get it. Do you want anything?" he asked, making his way to the kitchen beyond them. 

"No, I'm good, thanks. Um, you are going to the funeral, aren't you?" Alan asked, carefully keeping his tone casual. 

"Yeah, I'll get ready after breakfast. Don was in the shower when I got up." 

Alan nodded, not saying a word. Charlie wanted to ask him if he was okay, but decided not to. It was the same as every other morning for the last couple of years, Alan's shoulders bowed a little more each day under the weight of the world, but he still stood unbent. Today would be no different. 

Don came down the stairs at that moment, in the odd, skipping gallop that he used to go down stairs when he was rushing. He was wearing the slacks to his suit but his dress shirt was only partially buttoned over his white tee shirt. He was rubbing at his short, dark hair with the towel that he had draped around his shoulders. 

Charlie brought him a cup of coffee before returning for his own cup and bowl of cereal. "Want something for breakfast?" he asked, settling at the table across from Don. 

"No, coffee's fine," Don replied, taking a sip. 

Charlie ate quickly in silence. When he finished, he excused himself and took his dishes to the kitchen, before heading up stairs to shower and dress. As he passed his father's chair, he reached out and placed a hand on his father's shoulder, squeezing briefly before continuing on his way. 

An hour and a half later, he was downstairs again, dressed like his father and brother in a dark suit and white shirt, his traditional yarmulke perched on the crown of his head. His father stood before him, smoothing the shoulders of his suit and brushing non-existent lint from the lapels. Charlie squirmed at being treated like a twelve year old again, but a silent glare from his brother kept him quiet. "I'll drive," Don offered. Alan nodded his agreement, and the trio made their way to Don's vehicle. 

1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89 144 233...

The funeral home was across town; from there they would travel to the cemetery and the funeral service. Charlie watched the scenery fly by, his memory flying with it. There was the playground that his mother used to take him to when he was small, the swings that he used to try to make a perfect 90 degree angle on. His mother would laugh, and tell him that it would be too high; he'd better keep it under 45. He had made it, though, just once. And his mother was right; a 90 degree angle was too high. His hands on the swing chain in a death-grip, he had once swung up as high as the top of the swing-set. It was exhilarating, in a terrifying way. He could swear that he felt the swing-set rock out of the ground as he reached the top of the arc. Terrified that he was going to fall, he froze, no longer pumping his legs and letting the swing slow down. He then sat on the swing for a half an hour before he thought he could get up without collapsing. His mother just sat there on the next swing, telling him how proud she was that he accomplished his goal, but in the next breath she told him not to ever swing that high again, especially alone. 

They passed the grade school that he had been in for kindergarten, and first and second grades. He had gone to the public school in the morning, and came home in the afternoon to a few more hours of tutors and special lessons; his parents wanting him to have the socialization with children his own age. Then they turned to home-schooling and tutors for the remaining years of his academic career until he went off to college. And his mother was there, too. 

1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89 144 233...

The funeral was a blur; Charlie performed the traditional rituals mechanically when prodded by Don's elbow. When the Rabbi pinned a torn piece of ribbon to Alan's suit, and then did the same for Don, before taking a third piece and pinning it to Charlie's own garment, Charlie barely noticed; his mind was still focused on his chalkboard back home. When it came his turn to toss the requisite three shovelfuls of soil onto the lowered coffin, his mind cast about, unconsciously looking for his mother. She wasn't there, and his mind replayed the moment from the day before -- Don telling him she was dead. She couldn't be dead. He wasn't ready to lose her yet. 

Back at the house, he was grateful that the traditions of Shiva meant that the mourners didn't have to make small talk. He was never very good at small talk. His mother had tried to teach him how to make polite talk when necessary when she drilled manners into him, but while he could remember the manners, even understand them, the ability for polite conversations about nothing passed him by. 

Neighbors came and went; friends and co-workers of Don and their father visited, and Charlie longed to escape to the garage. He had another idea on his equation that he wanted to explore. When Mrs. Blomquist from down the street left, Charlie cautiously made his way over to his father's side.

"Dad?" he asked, hesitantly. 

Alan looked at his youngest son standing off to his side, taking in the almost unfocused look in his eyes. He sighed. It might be contrary to the traditions, but he figured the Lord would understand, it was He who gave Charlie his genius, after all. "Go, Charlie. It's alright." 

Charlie nodded, touching Alan's shoulder in silent thanks before heading to the garage. As he passed the door, he saw a pretty young woman with light brown hair enter and head toward his brother. Another agent, he assumed, from the FBI office where Don worked. The thought was quickly overshadowed by the numbers in his head. 

1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89 144 233...

Charlie was once more at the chalkboard, working on the equation on its surface when the garage door opened and a man walked in to stand next to him, not speaking for a long moment. Charlie turned his head to find his co-worker and mentor Professor Larry Fleinhardt standing at his side. 

"Charles," Larry greeted quietly. 

Charlie looked silently at his friend, taking in the yarmulke sitting on the thinning reddish curls. "Hi, Larry. What brings you here?" 

The astrophysicist looked at his friend in disbelief. "I came to pay my respects to you and your family, Charles. But if I'm intruding, then certainly, I'll get out of your way." 

Charlie refrained himself from rolling his eyes, but barely. Once again, he was defeated by polite small talk. "That wasn't what I meant, Larry. Don't go." 

Larry nodded, silently wondering why his young friend was out here instead of inside with his family, but he realized that for Charlie, there was more comfort in numbers than in a parade of neighbors and acquaintances bearing casseroles. 

Larry kept Charlie company for awhile, watching as the younger man focused on the equation in front of him. Finally turning to go, he laid his hand on Charlie's shoulder and softly said, "Ha-Makom y'nachem et'chem b'toch sha'ar aveilei Tzion v'Yerushalayim." (*May God comfort you among the other mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.*) 

"Omeyn," Charlie replied automatically, barely noticing when Larry left. 

1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89 144 233...

That night, as Charlie readied himself for bed, he thought over the equation that he had been working on. He knew that there was no known solution to it, it was considered unsolvable, like the end of Pi. But he felt like he'd made some definite progress on it. His last thought before he fell asleep was that he'd have to tell his mother that he had made significant inroads into the problem. Of his family, she was the only one that really understood what a magical code math was to him. 

1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89 144 233...

Charlie slowly came to the awareness that he was awake. His room was dark, the house was quiet; a quick glance at his alarm clock proclaimed the time was 2 am. So why was he awake in the middle of the night? He thought over the past day, looking for clues. The equation was going well; he had made significant progress forward on it, what else...? Then the realization hit him. The funeral was yesterday. Don's voice, "Mom died an hour ago, Charlie. I thought you'd want to know... Mom died an hour ago... Mom died..." 

His pillow felt wet under his cheek, he hadn't realized that he was crying. No more curling up with his head on his mother's lap; no more bantering about his female students falling for his dark curly locks, and if he didn't get a haircut this week, soon his hair would be so long that his male students would be falling for him... No more swing-sets and slides, no more late night talks over hot chocolate, no more studiously handcrafting the perfect card for Mother's Day because she liked homemade cards better than store bought cards... No more yesterday. Yesterday was gone, and his mother with it. Yesterday was gone, and he was all that was left.

**Author's Note:**

> This was moved from the now defunct Cal Sci Library. Thanks to Wolfpup for maintaining it as long as she did and giving our Numb3rs fiction a home.


End file.
